


Murder & Chill

by BC_Brynn



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bounty Hunting, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Humor, Multi, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Stealth Existentialism, The Merc with the Mouth, Unhealthy Relationships, What Are Morals?, not team Cap friendly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2019-07-03 11:36:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15818097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BC_Brynn/pseuds/BC_Brynn
Summary: “You wanna know how I got these scars?” Mr Joker asked, sinking back into the couch and grinning wide to show off his Glasgow smile.Wade shrugged and pulled off his mask. “You wanna know howIgotthesescars?”





	Murder & Chill

**Author's Note:**

> I dunno… I’m in a weird mood. Still writing crack, but I don’t think it’s very funny. I do sort of really like the story, though.
> 
> Let’s face it, at least I’ve managed to finish something. Enjoy?
> 
> (detailed warnings are in the end note)

“You gotta give it to them,” Wade admitted, and whistled appreciatively as the Hydra bunker blew up all over the horizon. “They’re really fucking bad for business.”

Bob silently trembled, staring at the spreading cloud of toxic smoke. A plane with the Rogue Avengers aboard shot through the sky and disappeared somewhere on the other side of the ecological disaster they had just caused. But, this was an African country, so who cared about the environment, right?

“Yeah, that’s right,” Wade answered Whitie. “Fortunately I took all the selfies, so if the client tries to shaft me, I’m gonna shaft him, and not in the fun, life-affirming way.”

Bob trembled some more. The toxic smoke spread low over the ground, coming ever nearer to the hill where Bob and Wade were standing.

“Wanna see?” Wade leant over and shoved his phone under Bob’s pale, sweaty face. The screen showed a part of his mask and shoulder, and behind those the decapitated Hydra Goon in Charge. A swipe of a finger, and there was a photo of Wade’s blurry fingers forming the peace sign, with a pile of sharply-rendered mildly-dismembered corpses in the background.

Another swipe-

“Whoops, I didn’t mean to take that. Was that Yellow? I bet it was you, asshole. Sure, it did make me feel pretty flipping good to piss on Hydraman’s dead body, but I don’t need to have that moment immortalized. And Wade Junior isn’t exactly what you’d call photogenic.”

At least Bob didn’t appear to be significantly more traumatized than before.

The next picture was a double selfie of Wade and his friend the Hydra Gate Guard cheek to cheek so they fit into the picture. Hydra Gate Guard considerately left the rest of his body lying on the ground, so there was no awkward shoulder-checking.

“No way the exVengers are taking _my_ fucking bounty. What do I look like – no, that was rhetorical, don’t answer that. If I wanted to hear what I look like, I’d ask Weasel. He at least makes it sound funny.”

“It warms my heart to see that not everyone has lost their sense of humor yet,” said an unfamiliar voice behind Wade.

Wade spun.

There was clown standing behind him.

Wade screamed.

Bob started quietly crying.

“Pennywise!” Wade shrieked.

“Because I never heard that one before,” said the clown. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Yes, the smell of toxic waste late in the afternoon. Humanity just insists on poisoning itself, like that is some sort of an achievement. Then they turn around and make a big deal of us, when we’re really just them but better at it. Murder and mayhem and melting in a vat of goop.”

“Try carcinogenic goop next time,” Wade recommended. “Cancer’s a gift that keeps on giving.”

The scarred corner of the clown’s mouth spasmed. “Not that I would ordinarily complain about overkill-”

Bob began to sob; Wade patted him on the head.

“-to each their own, but when my contractors go out of the mission parameters I consider our contract void.”

“Direct your complaints toward the Russo brothers,” Wade said. “The explosions were all Team Cap’s work. I just went in and unalived people – look see?” He turned his phone to the clown.

So much good work wasted just because the original Supersoldier didn’t want to share his claim to fame, and totally Michael Bay’d the whole research facility. On the other hand, as Whitie mentioned: “It’s the third base Stark’s ex-harem got to this year. Hydra are totally storing the _S.S._ formula on the Cloud. Get it? S.S. as in Super-Soldier, but also-”

“I do appreciate _reliable_ contractors,” said the clown agreeably, admiring the pictures of dead Nazis in Wade’s phone.

“Appreciation don’t buy us tacos. Let’s talk American Dollars, Mr Joker.” Sure, Wade had been confused for a moment by the melting face, but then he figured out that in the asscrack of Hell that was this peaceful and only slightly blown-up African country, even make-up lost its will to live and ran. Then it wasn’t all that hard to identify one of the most wanted criminals of the old U.S. of A.

The clown smirked crookedly. And twistedly. “Do you wanna see a magic trick? I’ll show you a trick with a chainsaw.”

And he pulled one out from behind his back.

x

Wade and Mr Joker ended up agreeing to disagree after a little bit of gross bodily harm.

They sat on the blood-soaked couches inside Mr Joker’s private airplane; Bob was holding Wade’s sawed-off arm in position until it grew back, and Dr Quinn – not Jane Seymour, this one was younger, hotter and possibly crazier than Yellow – tended to Mr Joker’s multiple gee-es-doubleyous. Wade had had to get a little creative around the bulletproof undershirt, ‘cause he didn’t want to kill his client before the money was transferred.

“Lemme bash his head in a bit, Mista J,” Dr Quinn wheedled, sewing up a hole in the clown’s greenish, zombie-like stomach.

“Harley.” He paused, licked his lip, and grinned woodenly. “Harley, I’d let you have all the fun-”

“I could have a lot of fun with someone whose head grows back together. A _lot_ of fun-”

“But Deadpool’s not like Batman. He would come back and shoot me.” He twirled his hand next to his cheek. “Or possibly chop me into little pieces.” Mr Joker was smiling as he said this.

Wade nodded. “Can’t unalive me, not so I’d stick, and can’t really get away if I wanna to unalive you, ‘cause I just keep coming. And coming. And-”

“It’s our best option to make friends,” said Mr Joker, patronizing as fuck, before Wade could start making illustrative pelvic thrusts.

 _Clara pacta, boni amici_ , chimed in Whitie, whatever the fuck that was supposed to mean.

“Friends don’t break contracts with their friends,” Wade pointed out. He tried to move his elbow. It sort of worked, even if his hand just flopped over like a suffocating fish and smacked Bob on the nose.

Mr Joker spread his knees so Dr Quinn could kneel between them and get to the graze along his ribs more easily. He reached for his holey and bloody purple coat and pulled a phone out of its pocket. He tapped at it for a while and then handed it over to Wade.

There was a money transfer ready for the final approval – the right account number, the right number of zeroes, with a little surprising bonus five in as the second character, almost like Mr Joker really meant it when he said he wanted to be friends with Wade.

Wade tapped the ‘confirm’ button and handed the phone back.

“So refreshing to make acquaintances with someone who sees the humor in maiming,” said Mr Joker. There was still a smeared grin painted over the lower half of his face, but dear sweet Stephanie Meyer, it looked more like he was a messy-eater vamp, and not one of them vegetarian ones. Not with that grin. His eyeshadow crossed his cheeks in streaks like a crying’s prom queen’s mascara on crack.

His breathing hitched every once in a while, when Dr Quinn stabbed him with a needle or pushed on that one broken rib.

“You wanna know how I got these scars?” Mr Joker asked, sinking back into the couch and grinning wide to show off his Glasgow smile.

Wade shrugged and pulled off his mask. “You wanna know how _I_ got _these_ scars?”

Bob knew what was coming, so he had strategically turned away; Dr Quinn took one glance, went ‘eww’ and then huddled over Mr Joker’s groin-adjacent locations again.

Mr Joker got a good long look, only a little fascinated. Zero disgust. “Well, I can honestly say that this has never happened to me before.”

Wade leaned over the gap between the fancy couches, extended his good arm and patted Mr Joker’s knee (narrowly avoiding Dr Quinn’s juicy ass). “It’s okay. It’s my first time, too.”

Their eyes met.

Mr Joker’s eyes did not reflect any of the pain he must have been in (unless he had that condition where the person just did not feel any pain, which he obviously didn’t – he def wasn’t flinching to make Dr Quinn happy). Wade mostly looked into people’s eyes only because they could tell him a lot about what kind of person he was dealing with. Mr Joker was a guy a bit like Wade: he had been in so much pain in his life that he had sort of come out the other side and didn’t much take notice of it anymore. He was also smart. Very, very smart. And fuck-all scared him.

Not like Wade. The one thing Wade liked about African deserts was the same thing he liked about New York City: the dearth… of cows.

Mr Joker shrugged a little and coyly licked his lip. “So long as you don’t promise to be gentle, _my friend_.”

Wade was pretty sure Mr Joker didn’t take the joke like Wade had meant it. This happened to him all the time, and then people thought that he was crazy. Which he was, but that was a whole other kettle of crayfish.

“Why so serious?” Wade complained.

Mr Joker scowled. He licked his lip. “Did you just steal my line?”

“It’s a good line. ‘sides, I’m immune to all your catchphrases like it’s measles – you won’t believe the kind of measles I has as a kid, you see the fucking pockmarks? It’s fate! We’re so similar we cancel each other out!”

“You’re nothin’ like Mista J, you ugly brute,” cried Dr Quinn, casting a longing look at the huge mallet propped in the corner of the cabin.

Wade looked at Mr Joker’s make-up-smeared face, at his greenish, thin, chicken-like chest covered with scars and open wounds and black, bug-like stitches, and decided that some women just had absolutely terrible taste in men.

x

Wade was used to it, so he kept his superhero outfit despite the ugly-ass tear where his arm used to be detached, and the handful of other business-related holes.

Bob had ditched his filthy and easily identifiable Hydra uniform, and desolately stared at the hazmat suit their hosts had lent him, since they weren’t Tony Stark and didn’t exactly have a full closet in the back of the plane.

“Why is it purple?”

“‘cause you’re the special minion.” Wade patted him on the head, and then realized that he should probably get that reflex checked before he found himself looking at collars and flea baths. It was bad enough that Bob used to have his own bowl at Wade’s previous apartment (sadly, it had gotten blown up with all the other shit).

Blind Al said he wasn’t allowed pets. Poo.

Which, yes, was probably the main reason, and Whitie could stuff it.

“You don’t like purple?” Mr Joker inquired.

Bob looked from Mr Joker’s purple pants to his purple coat (a spare one) to his horror-movie face. “Uhh… no, sir. I mean yes! Yes! I mean – purple is fine, sir.” He made a sad little attempt at a smile, radiating ‘please don’t unalive me’ vibes.

Mr Joker was a cool guy, though, and simply put his butterfly knife back into his pocket, stretched out on the plane-couch and crossed his arms behind his head. “I’ll have another job for you soon enough, Mr Wilson. I expect anyone who tries this will die a few times before it gets done, but that should not slow you down, am I right?”

Wade poked his finger through a hole in his mask just about an inch above his eye. “Know how the soldiers say you should sell your life dearly? It’s a better business plan to just sell your croaking. It never fucking runs out.”

x

“The City of Angels!” Wade exclaimed cheerfully, hopping off the plane onto the tarmac. “I dig the irony.”

He pulled his sweaty and smelly mask back on, just so he wouldn’t get fined for public indecency.

Yet again.

Bob stumbled to his side, looking a little airsick – or maybe just nervous that Mr Joker would pull out the chainsaw again, or let Dr Quinn play with her hammer.

Not that Bob had anything to be worried about. Mr Joker was a stand-up criminal, and he wouldn’t let one of his minions do anything to one of his friends’ minions. Without either asking first or apologizing afterwards.

“Batman has the Gotham airport watched, and I have too many plans in the works at the moment to take another unscheduled vacation in Arkham,” Mr Joker explained, coming down the ramp with Dr Quinn bouncing at his shoulder. He had cleaned up his face, and it looked sort of like a face now, too. For a given value of face. More face-like than Wade’s. No worse than the average party girl after midnight and three cocktails. “Which reminds me – would you be interested in another business proposal?”

“Would you be interested in a proposition?” Wade countered.

Mr Joker was uglier than sin, but he still had miles of aesthetic pleasantness on Wade, so no judgment. Also, Wade had been looking at his half-naked body for a couple of hours earlier and trading maybe-jokes about the loss of virginity, and it was screwing with his head.

Wade dodged a vicious hammer swing.

“Not particularly, but I appreciate the offer,” replied Mr Joker.

“Hands off my Puddin’!” shrieked Dr Quinn.

Wade dodged another hammer swing and reached for Bea.

“Heel, Harley,” ordered Mr Joker, and pulled the Doc to him by the back of her spandex overall. “Bad dog.”

“Um…” Bob spoke up from behind Wade, where he was cringing away from the immediate threat of gory death. “D’you think I could go home now, Mr Deadpool?”

Wade clapped him on the back. “Sure thing. Say hi to the wife and kids. You got cash on you?”

Bob shrugged. “I have a credit card and my work set of IDs. I’ll be fine. Thank you for not letting me die at Captain America’s hands, Mr Deadpool.”

“Anytime, buddy,” Wade assured him, and wished he owned a handkerchief so he could wave him off as he walked away. Goodbyes were hard. You never knew when you were meeting someone for the last time. And with the Cap’s grudge (not to even mention the Winter Soldier’s grudge, ‘cause it might at the moment have been iced in an industrial freezer in Wakanda, but Winter subscribed to revenge best being served cold) chances were that Bob would go to the Big Hydra Bunker in the Sky soon enough.

Ah well. That was life – for anyone who wasn’t Wade or Logan or wearing a plot armor.

Speaking of plot armor, pointed out Whitie.

“What will you even do with the serum?” asked Wade.

Any other supervillain he could see enhancing themselves or creating an army of roidheads, but Mr Joker? Nah.

A limo as good as glided to a halt next to them.

Mr Joker checked the driver’s face, seemed satisfied with their identity, and then looked at Wade, sucking his cheeks in as if they weren’t already hollow enough. “Did you know that Batman is a baseline human?”

They climbed into the super posh _purple_ limo (Mr Joker had swag, and he knew from accessorizing, even if it was the stupidest way to get noticed when he already said he wanted to be inconspicuous), and sprawled over the leather seats. It was like the plane all over again. Apparently organized crime paid a lot better than mercenary work… or else Mr Joker spent a lot less money on the true luxuries in life, like tacos and pancakes and Not My America buttons (the ones with the red line across the Cap’s shield, which had become all the rage since that little airport oops in old _Alemania_ ).

Not that people were any nicer to the Iron Man, but at least they cut him some slack ‘cause the whole world unlocked his Tragic Backstory™, and most people sort of agreed that lying about your parents’ murder and helping the murderer was a general dick move and a definite friendship deal-breaker.

“With all the scum around Gotham Batsy spends half his time laid up and healing. Half of the rest he’s fighting injured.” Mr Joker licked his lip and viciously pulled on his scraggly hair. “What about _me_?! Weeks upon weeks of ennui, and then he turns up to a fight still limping? _Unacceptable_.”

Wade felt touched. It really got him straight in the feels. There were so very few villains who took such good care of their hero counterparts. It was heart-warming to see that there were still those who took the business seriously and put some fucking effort into building up their mythos.

“You get so listless, Puddin’.” Dr Quinn snuggled up to Mr Joker’s arm, then turned to Wade and nodded sagely. “Even murder doesn’t cheer him up. He says it’s all humdrum without Batty.”

“Betty?” Wade repeated, unsure if they meant White or Ross.

“No! _Batty_!” Dr Quinn corrected him, while the pitch of her voice rose high enough to get a little painful.

“Like, crazy.” Wade nodded. “I know from crazy. I mean, people get all butthurt about the ableism, but I can say it, ‘cause I’m crazy myself and they’re assholes if they deny me my self-identification.”

Dr Quinn thought about it for a while and then tentatively smiled. “I might be a little insane myself.”

They both turned to Mr Joker.

Mr Joker twirled his butterfly knife between his purple-gloved fingers. “Yes, yes, we all know I am a funny person. Funny as in possessing a _razor_ wit-” He twirled the knife again. “-but also funny as in weird.”

“Frankly,” decided Dr Quinn, “between the PTSD, the Messiah complex and the kill counts, most heroes have no stones to cast.” For two seconds there she sounded like the actual medical professional she used to be before she decided that poker-themed spandex was a good fashion choice.

For the record, Wade totally endorsed her fashion choices. She reminded him a little of Domino, only with the brain a lot more scrambled.

“Yet another reason to keep Batsy alive,” pointed out Mr Joker, but before he got going with a solid monologue about the exceptionality of _his_ hero, and their special relationship with all the creepy UST, his expression darkened. And with the make-up, that was enough (crawling?) darkness to set off Wade’s atrophied survival instincts.

He clutched Bea and Arthur to his chest.

Mr Joker activated the intercom. “Driver, change of plans. We will stop by the Gotham Gazette Headquarters.” He waited for confirmation and closed the connection. “Harley, check how many of the acid bombs we have left.”

Dr Quinn folded her seat and climbed headfirst into the space behind it until she was in up to her waist. Her spandex-covered ass wiggled in the face of Mr Joker, who saw nothing of it, because he was staring at a folded copy of the newspaper that had been prepared for him by his flunkies.

Wade looked his fill, ‘cause being terrified for his manhood had never stopped him, and it wasn’t like it could get permanently harmed anyway.

“We got two left, Mista J!” Dr Quinn called out and wiggled backwards (which Wade Junior took definite notice of) coming up for air with an ugly mess of wires and containers in each hand.

“Careful with that, Harley,” Mr Joker said absently, licking his lip, still devouring the media. “If you break it, it will melt your flesh off your bones.”

“Sure thing, Mista J!” Dr Quinn carefully arranged the acid bombs on one on the free seats.

Mr Joker looked over the top of the newspaper at Wade (setting off some half-forgotten memories of Wade’s Da, which made Wade flinch and then wonder why his Da ever did that when he could not read enough to tell bourbon from turpentine… which was also a funny story). “I don’t like it when they call him a criminal,” he said mildly.

There was a look in his eyes that made that statement a million percent more terrifying, like anyone else in his place would have been howling about hatred and cleaning his gun, and describing in gory detail how long it would take the author of that article to die. Mr Joker packed all that violent intention into ten softly spoken words.

It was impressive.

“ _Vigilante_ ,” Mr Joker continued, licking his lip and nodding to himself, “yes. Of course. But _criminal_? _I_ am the criminal.” He leaned forward and pointed all eight of his non-thumb fingers at his own chest to emphasize this, keeping eye-contact with Wade. “And they reduce what we have to some banal mob war. Like a drug deal gone wrong.”

Wade’s balls tried to climb up into his belly.

Silence fell. It physically pained Wade to keep his mouth shut, but the rest of his body wanted to follow Dr Quinn’s example and curl up in a tiny ball to make himself a smaller target.

Wade listened to his own heart going badabadabadabump so fast he couldn’t count the beats.

Dr Quinn bit off a whimper.

Someone was breathing loudly enough to be heard over the purring of the engine, and this didn’t seem like a good idea. Wade hoped it wasn’t him.

Then Mr Joker sighed and leaned back, lacing his fingers together. “This is a waste of time and resources. Why do I do this when I know people won’t learn?”

Wade discreetly checked if he hadn’t pissed himself. A few drops, maybe, but there was no trickling down his pant legs, so he declared all clear.

Then Mr Joker narrowed his eyes, and Wade held that thought. “You might have some insight, Mr Wilson. How does it work for you? By all rights, you should be regarded as a villain.”

Wade was mostly just glad that he was not being asked about the reasons for having faith in mankind. Which, by the way, Wade did _not_ presently have – thank you, Captain America – but might regain one day upon meeting a certain wall-crawler, so he couldn’t make any definitive statements, and trying ot explain this mess usually resulted in people shooting him out of annoyance.

He switched both Bea and Arthur to rest in the crook of his elbow and made a finger gun with his free hand. “By all rights, you should be an _anti-hero_ , bub.”

“…bub?” Mr Joker repeated curiously.

Damn it, Logan, Wade thought. “Old acquaintance. Should be anti-hero, is considered squarely hero, based solely on viewer appreciation for his pecs. I feel that’s unfair. Have you seen this ass?” He tilted one hip up, showing off what little he could without falling over.

Dr Quinn checked, and then turned away, unimpressed. Some people – no accounting for taste.

“I have,” Mr Joker assured him. “I in fact also distinctly remember blowing it up.”

“So you did.” Wade nodded, remembering bits and pieces. Of himself. All over the place. Another day, another SNAFU. “No worries, it pulled itself back together to please the crowds of fans. So, regarding people mistaking you for evil, when you’re at best a Loki-esque chaotic neutral – and dear god of madness and chicanery, don’t get me started on Loki’s fan-perception – I know what you do wrong.”

Mr Joker made a dramatic pause, with a cute little head-tilt. Then he asked, conspiratorially: “Is it the mass-murder?”

“Nope! Everybody mass-murders these days! The Avengers do it, so you know it’s alright. Sure, they act all sorry for the journos afterwards, and the Iron Man signs all those weregild checks, but then Cap gets up on his soap-box and it takes him less time to convince everyone it was the right thing to do than it takes the POTUS to break the Shadow Proclamation and make it clear as day he’s a Nazi alien. _Slitheen_.”

“…is it the way I brutally killed Robin and maimed Bats’ girlfriend?” hazarded Mr Joker, apparently having fun, like he had not saturated the air with unaliving intent just a few minutes ago.

“Happens to anyone,” Wade assured him. “Did you hear about Stark’s parents? Rhodes? Baa-dum-tss.”

The mutilated corners of Mr Joker’s mouth twitched. “…is it the way I take away the citizens’ sense of security and give them nightly nightmares?”

Wade was going to have nightmares after today, but nightmares were old buddies of his. “Two words: The Incredible Hulk. That’s technically three words, but let’s face it, particles don’t actually have word rights yet. The wheels of lexical revolution turn slowly.”

“Then do enlighten me.”

“It’s the lack of exposition,” Wade announced. “And trust me, I realize how ironic this sounds in regards to one of the chattiest characters in the universe, but the fact is that you can unalive as many people as you like as long as they are a) just a faceless crowd, b) at least arguably evil, c) getting in the way of you defeating a bad guy or d) you say you didn’t mean to afterwards.”

“I always mean to kill people,” Mr Joker pointed out.

Wade shook his head, cuddling Bea and Arthur. “That doesn’t really matter. You only have to _say_ it.”

“Bats wouldn’t fall for it…” The words sounded like a protest, but Mr Joker was thoughtfully looking at the newspaper again, and – unless Yellow missed his mark – contemplating delayed gratification. On the other hand, argued Whitie, he had _two_ bombs, so he could gratifyingly melt someone’s flesh of their bones today and still keep the other bomb for the subsequent intimidation to get the cooperation he required.

Wade stretched, curling his toes in his combat boots. “Last I heard, if you spin it right, you could claim you’re the hero and _he’s_ the baddie you were fighting when you accumulated all that collateral. If you’re into that sort of thing.”

“Tempting,” allowed Mr Joker, “but I do not want to demoralize Bats.”

“…you maimed his girlfriend…?” Wade noted. Granted, on the grand scale of things that didn’t matter, but people coming after people’s girlfriends was a pet peeve of his.

Mr Joker dismissively waved his hand. “I maimed mine, too. It’s what I do.”

Dr Quinn pouted, but climbed over, glomped onto his side and stared sadly at nothing with big, horse-sad eyes. “I’m better like this, Mista J.”

x

Wade hadn’t gone into the newspaper office with his client and his client’s girlfriend, so he didn’t know the details of what happened, but there was some screaming, and they only came back with one acid bomb, so he could guess.

It put them into a good mood over the dinner in a five star joint so posh the maître d’ didn’t even blink at seating famous criminals.

“Fuck, marry, unalive,” Wade inquired over the main course, guesstimating the distance from the smoking terrace outside the floor-to-ceiling windows to the pavement deep, deep below.

Gotham was no Manhattan, but you still got some suicidelicious skyscrapers.

And iconic bat silhouettes standing on the ledges like justice-dispensing gargoyles.

“Fuck Bats,” muttered Mr Joker, and it wasn’t entirely clear if that was an answer or just a generic expression of sentiment – or, come to think of it, both.

“Puddin’?” whined Dr Quinn, all big eyes and even bigger boobs, ‘cause she pulled her catsuit zipper as low as it could go without those twins falling right out and poking someone’s eye out. Not that Wade would mind. His eye would grow right back in.

Mr Joker twirled his fork around to wind the spaghetti around it. He raised the mouthful and watched with mild delight how blobs of the red goop fell back onto the plate. “Oh, it wouldn’t be boring. And the post-coital languor could offer so many interesting possibilities. Demasking. Opening an artery or two. Stabbing him with a subdermal full of the S.S. serum – I so hate it when he lets the generic lowlife half-kill him. What am I supposed to do if he goes and dies on me?”

Wade had a feeling that he might have misunderstood a whole lot about his client. And his client’s relationships.

Mr Joker committed an act of oral sex upon his fork. “It would depend on how good a ride he is.”

“Puddin’,” Dr Quinn whined again, pouting. “At least you’d marry me, right?”

“Sure,” Mr Joker replied without much interest. “Kill Superman.”

Wade nodded with complete understanding. “All that red and blue preaching, and the righteousness, and that better-than-thou attitude. He’ll have an oops and unalive a few civvies, and then turn around and say _we’re_ the _bad people_.”

“This actually bothers you,” Mr Joker pointed out, surprised.

Wade shrugged. The spaghetti really truly looked like entrails. It was fun food – not as good as tacos, but a lot more gossly enjoyable to eat. “I believed in Captain America. He was my hero.”

Mr Joker grimaced in (probably fake) sympathy. “ _Heroes_.”

Wade expected that one day soon a juicy young thing would swing by and try to talk him out of unaliving people over rooftop dates and chimichangas, but, honestly, why should he stop? The people Wade unalived were the worst of humanity, thieves and murderers and traffickers and rapists. Or zombies. The people unalived by Captain America were law-enforcement officers doing their goddamn jobs.

It was tough, when you lived in a world where Captain America didn’t care beyond making a bunch of stupid-ass excuses for himself from the top of his plinth, where _Iron Man_ was the less ambiguously moral hero. It was hard to believe in anything enough to change for it.

Here Wade was crossing over to the darker, grittier side of the comic book divide, and the darkest, grittiest thing about it so far was that Dr Quinn stole his Hello Kitty watch. He just wondered what was happening with that juicy young thing right now. Was he learning Cap’s shiny new set of values? Was he losing faith in truth and justice? Was he holding onto Iron Man’s apron strings like they were the only thing that kept him from drowning in the mire of Disney’s shiney money-over-logic-or-continuity attitude?

“Send me the specs of the next Hydra base, Mr Joker,” he said. “I’ll get the serum for you or die. _And_ die. Probably a lot, but all in a day’s job.”

Dr Quinn leaned over and pressed a quick kiss to the air by the side of Wade’s partially folded-up mask. And giggled.

Mr Joker met Wade’s eye and nodded.

Yellow was right: when some heroes rotted away into piles of bad writing and self-righteous hypocrisy, it was up to the bad guys to protect what little good there was left in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: mentions of extreme violence and gore, murder, mental disorders, mentioned terminal illness, PTSD, abusive relationships, implied CA:CW bullshit, loss of faith, insanity, very bad language, wildly inappropriate humour, unreliable narrator like whoa
> 
> You know them, anyway – they’re insane people who do very bad things and find them funny as hell. Don’t read about them if the stuff they do in canon is hurtful to you.


End file.
